


She Wolf

by squadrickchestopher



Series: Filthy Porn Fridays [5]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bottom Clint Barton, Butt Plugs, Clubbing, Crying, Deaf Clint Barton, Dirty Talking Bucky Barnes, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, POV Clint Barton, Rough Oral Sex, Safe Sane and Consensual, Semi-Public Sex, Top Bucky Barnes, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:41:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26480590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squadrickchestopher/pseuds/squadrickchestopher
Summary: Clint takes his whiskey and turns around, casually leaning against the bar while sipping his drink. He makes sure to get the angle just right, body language open and casual, eyes sweeping the nearby dance floor for possible candidates. Clint knows what he looks like, especially dressed up like this, and he gets more than a few looks back, raised eyebrows and inviting glances.But Clint also has a type, so he keeps looking, surveying the crowd until the mass of dancing bodies shifts with a new song, andthere—Oh yeah, Clint thinks, taking another sip.You’ll do just fine.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: Filthy Porn Fridays [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1860367
Comments: 23
Kudos: 261
Collections: Clintucky Fried Bunnies





	She Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> Live from [redacted], it's another Filthy Porn Friday installment! Thank you discord friends for all your screaming and love, I couldn't do this without you <3 
> 
> title has nothing to do with wolves and everything to do with Shakira, I am not sorry

Clint bursts into his apartment like a tornado, throwing his keys on the table with a vengeance and kicking off his shoes at the door, throwing one hard enough to lodge into the drywall. He _feels_ like a tornado, honestly, like there’s a furious spiral of pent-up energy thrumming beneath his skin, swirling around in his chest, making it impossible for him to be still.

Lucky barks at him in indignation, mad about being woken from a nap, and Clint spares him a few head scratches before he goes back to being pissed off.

It’s been a day. It’s been a _week_ , really, one of those shitty ones where nothing really goes right. He’d had an argument with Tony over something inane at the beginning of it, and they’ve been chilly with each other ever since. And then SHIELD had given him some crap assignment on Wednesday, and afterwards he and Steve had gotten into it over Clint’s _“insane desire to throw yourself headlong into dangerous situations, seriously, Barton, do you have some kind of death wish?”_

Then the Bad Guy of the Week had decided to come back for round two today, so now Clint’s got bruises on top of his bruises and he can still feel Steve’s patented _I-am-disappointed-in-your-life-choices_ look boring into the back of his skull, even from a twenty-minute cab ride away.

So what it all adds up to, essentially, is that Clint’s pissed off, brimming with energy, and he just needs—

He needs—

He needs to get _fucked_.

It sounds desperate to admit that to himself, but it’s been longer than he likes, and he just—he _needs_ it. Needs the physicality of it, needs to lose himself in a mess of sensations, needs to be forced out of his mind for even just a little bit. He’d been _trying_ to do that this morning, lazily edging himself in the morning sunlight, one hand around his cock and the other working his favorite purple dildo in and out of his ass. Then his goddamn phone had gone off, the Answer Me Or Else one that Tasha had given him, and he’d had to drop everything to go help deal with some weird robot bullshit.

So he’s been on edge— _literally_ —since this morning, and it’s been a long and lousy week, and long story short, Clint really just wants to get railed against a wall until he can’t see straight anymore.

He carefully sets his bow on the table, then tosses his jacket on the couch. He extracts his phone from his too-tight mission pants and pulls up Nat’s name, then types out a quick message to her. It’s probably ruder than he means, but at this point he doesn’t really care. He’ll take her out to breakfast or something tomorrow. Buy her some “I’m sorry I took out my sexual frustrations on you” waffles.

Clint drops it on the counter, then pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it on the railing as he goes upstairs. The dildo is still laying there on the bed, right next to the lube, sheets all twisted up in the same mess as he’d left them. He sighs and rubs a hand over his face. He should clean that, really, and then just start from the beginning, edge himself up again—

“Not gonna be enough,” he sighs to Lucky, who’s nudging around his knees, looking for more head scratches. Clint obliges, leaning down to rub his fingers through the soft fur while he tries to think of something else to do, some other way to burn off all this energy—

He sees the shirt, then, laid out on the dresser. The crop top, the one that Natasha lovingly refers to as his ‘whore shirt.’ It’s a tiny little thing, bright red, says “Pizza Slut” on the front, with the Pizza Hut logo on it. She’d bought it for him as a joke, and he’s worn it so often that the words are starting to fade.

Clint stares at the shirt for a moment, thinking, and then a slow smile stretches across his face. “Perfect,” he says to Lucky, leaning down to kiss his head. “I got it.”

He digs through his closet until he comes up with a pair of shorts, the tight black ones that don’t leave much to the imagination. He’d bought them for running, originally, but then realized after trying them on that he’d probably get arrested for public indecency if he actually tried to exercise in them. So they mostly hang out in the back of his closet, making an occasional appearance if he wants to drive someone insane. Or make Natasha roll her eyes and tell him he thinks too much of himself.

Clint wriggles out of his pants, tossing them on Lucky’s head just to watch him yip and shake them off. “You’re cute,” he says, grabbing the shorts. He starts to pull them on, then pauses, looking at the nightstand.

Specifically, at the top drawer. That’s where all the fun stuff is.

He considers for half a second, then opens it, running his fingers over all the things inside. It’s getting crowded in here; he’s going to have to start leaving just the favorites in the drawer and move the rest to an actual box or something.

But that’s a thought for a later time. Clint taps his fingers over a couple choices, then picks out one, a small black plug that he knows he can have in comfortably for a while. He takes it and the purple dildo into the bathroom and washes them both, then puts the dildo back in its spot.

“Go lay down,” he says to Lucky. “You don’t need to see this.”

Not that he’s ashamed of what he’s doing or anything, but fucking himself always feels kind of weird if Lucky’s just sitting there, staring at him.

Lucky barks, but obediently troops down the stairs again. Clint waits until he’s at the bottom, then collapses onto the bed, sprawling out until he’s comfortable. He’s already half-hard—has been all day, really—and it doesn’t take much to get him the rest of the way there. It feels good to finally get a hand on himself, some of the tension immediately draining from his shoulders as he licks his palm and rubs it over the head of his cock. Would feel better if someone _else_ was doing this, really, but this is what he’s got to work with.

Clint cracks the lube open and coats his fingers, then circles around his hole before sliding one in, tipping his head back at the sensation. It’s not enough, but he doesn’t need that right now. He’s just going to open himself up a little, that’s all. He’s not going to come from this.

“Not going to,” he says to the ceiling, like a reminder, like a promise. Not that he doesn’t want to, but if he’s perfectly honest with himself—a rare occurrence—he actually _likes_ being kept on the edge of it. Likes the way it makes him a little desperate, a little needy. He also likes it when—

The thought vanishes into mist as he nudges his prostate, a low _fuck me_ escaping from his throat, like it’s being dragged out of him. He gets another finger in, fucking himself in shallow movements, other hand slowly moving over his dick. God, it feels so _good_ , everything he’s been wanting the past few hours, and okay, maybe he _is_ going to come from this—

There’s muffled steps on the stairs, and the jingle of a collar. Clint pries his eyes open and lifts his head up to see Lucky peeking over the top of the stairs, giving him a look.

“Stop judging me,” he says, letting go of his dick. He points down the stairs. “Go. Shoo.”

Lucky barks sadly, but turns around, going back down the stairs. Clint scowls after him, then slides his fingers out, reaching for the plug instead. Probably for the best, anyway. He was getting…distracted.

He lubes up the plug and slides it in, moaning a little at the stretch and sensation of it. Once it’s settled in place, he takes a moment to get himself under control, then rolls off the bed and gets to his feet.

“Nngh,” he mutters, bracing on the nightstand for a second. He can feel his arousal thrumming through him, a different kind of energy than what he’d come in the apartment with. This feels much better. Less…destructive.

He cleans his hands off, then gets dressed, grimacing at the obscene bulge in his shorts. Gonna have to wait for that to go away. Planning ahead is not his strong suit when he’s strung out like this.

Clint kicks the laundry basket out of the way, then stops, eyes catching on the red fishnets buried underneath a giant sweatshirt. “There’s a thought,” he mutters and digs them out, holding them up to the light, an idea forming in his mind.

He pulls off the shorts and puts on the fishnets, then does the shorts over the top of them. It doesn’t really help his boner situation, but it looks damn good. Goes nicely with the red shirt. He shaves too, because the scruff is getting a little out of hand.

Lucky comes back up when he’s rummaging through the makeup bag in his bathroom, debating if it’s an eyeliner kind of night or not.

“Maybe just a little,” he says to Lucky. “What do you think?”

Lucky tilts his head, one eye studying Clint. Then he barks and licks Clint’s leg.

“I’m gonna take that as a yes,” Clint says. “Thank you for your input.”

He barks again, then flops on his back, legs up in the air and head curved to the side.

“You’re so dramatic,” Clint tells him. “Let me make myself look pretty, and then I will pet you. Is that acceptable?”

A huff this time, which makes Clint laugh. He faces the mirror, thumbing over a bruise on his hip, pressing on it just to feel the little flash of pain. Steve hadn’t been too far off when he’d yelled at Clint earlier. _“I swear, Barton, I think you like getting beat to hell every damn week.”_ Which isn’t to say it’s completely true—he doesn’t like getting smashed into a pulp, but he does like poking at his bruises after. Always has. Something about it just makes him feel...alive.

He shoves the thought away and does his eyeliner—he’s getting _good_ at it now, he’s almost as good as Tasha is—and throws on some mascara and glittery lip gloss, along with some stud earrings just for the hell of it. If he’s going out dressed like this, he might as well finish the look off.

By the time he’s done with that and paying the requisite dog tax, his dick has mostly gotten the message that nothing’s going to happen right _now_ , and he’s fairly certain that he can go outside without causing a scene.

Not that he’s going far, but still. He really doesn’t want to be arrested before he gets there.

Clint considers doing something with his hair, then decides against it. If the night goes the way he wants it to, it’s only gonna get messed up anyway. He does take a moment to drag a comb through it, turning the haystack into something halfway between _respectable_ and _please bang me against a wall._

He grabs his shoes and goes back downstairs, grabbing his phone from the counter and dialing. “Kate,” he says. “How do you feel about having a dog for the weekend?”

“That’s fine. Are you okay with him coming upstate? America and I have a date. We rented a cabin. He can play in the lake.”

Clint looks over his shoulder at Lucky. “Wanna go upstate, buddy?”

Lucky stares at Clint for a moment, then goes back to licking his balls. 

“He says yes,” Clint tells her.

“Okay. I can be over in ten.”

“I’m going out. Just let yourself in.” He hangs up and tosses Lucky a treat from the jar on the counter. “Love you, buddy. Have a good time chasing ducks.”

Lucky barks, and Clint scratches his head one last time, then heads out the door. 

The club isn’t far, but there’s enough people out that Clint gets a couple of double takes along the way. He’s not sure if it’s from the outfit or if they can just sense the _somebody please screw me_ vibes he’s putting out, but either way, he doesn’t really care. He just keeps moving, letting all his frustration pour into his stride.

By the time he gets there, he’s even more worked up than he was when he started. He feels like he’s going to buzz out of his skin, like he’s a live wire, like if someone touches him he’ll just spontaneously combust.

He also forgot his fucking wallet, but luckily Enrique is on the door tonight, and he just hands Clint a wristband without question. “Looking good,” he says, not even batting an eye at Clint’s outfit. “Haven’t seen you in awhile.”

“Been busy,” Clint says. “How’re the kids?”

“They’re good.” His eyes light up, and he digs out his phone. “Look, my little one, she’s starting kindergarten this year.”

“Cute,” Clint says, looking at the picture. “I’ll be in the neighborhood sometime in the next few days, I’ll pop over and say hi.”

“Come over Monday,” Enrique tells him. “My wife is making _chili rellenos_.”

“Oh, I don’t want to intrude on family time—”

“You saved my kids from getting run over, _hermano_ ,” Enrique says firmly. “You’re welcome anytime.”

“I’ll be there, then,” Clint tells him. He pats Enrique on the shoulder and slides the wristband on, then steps into the club. The noise wraps around him, a bass beat that he can feel deep in his chest. It’s soothing, in a weird way, and he finds himself breathing easy for the first time since setting foot outside.

He makes his way to the bar and catches the eye of his favorite bartender. She waves at him and he waves back, then signs at her. _Double whiskey. Put it on my tab._

_Got it_ , she signs back, followed by _Good to see you._

_You too,_ he says.

Clint takes his whiskey and turns around, casually leaning against the bar while sipping his drink. He makes sure to get the angle just right, body language open and casual, eyes sweeping the nearby dance floor for possible candidates. Clint knows what he looks like, especially dressed up like this, and he gets more than a few looks back, raised eyebrows and inviting glances.

But Clint also has a type, so he keeps looking, surveying the crowd until the mass of dancing bodies shifts with a new song, and _there_ —

_Oh yeah_ , Clint thinks, taking another sip. _You’ll do just fine._

The lights shift over his face, giving him an otherworldly kind of look. He’s tall, with dark hair wrapped up into a bun. On anyone else, Clint would call it ridiculous, but on him it looks fucking fantastic. Clint wants to touch it, get his fingers in it, see what it looks like sliding through his hands.

Clint takes his time looking, eyes dragging all over the thick thighs framed in dark jeans, and the broad shoulders barely constrained by a tight blue shirt. Tight is an understatement, really. Clint’s pretty sure if he flexes, he’s gonna bust out of it.

The light catches on his arm, and Clint blinks at the brightness of it. It’s _metal_ , his whole arm is, bright and shiny and eye-catching. It should be weird, but he makes it look natural. Makes it look _hot_ , really. Clint watches the light reflect off the surface of it and feels his mouth water. He wants to touch it, drag his hand up and down the plates, feel those fingers wind into his hair and pull—

The guy catches him looking, and a slow smirk spreads across his face as he looks right back. Clint feels hot all over again, like there’s fire in his veins. His hand is shaking, anticipation curling under his skin. He throws back the rest of his whiskey in a single movement, tipping his head back and baring his throat. Then he sets the glass down and looks back at the guy, tilting his head at the place next to him in a clear invitation.

The smirk widens, and the guy strides towards him like a panther, gait unhurried and predatory and just a little dangerous. It goes right to Clint’s dick, arousal sparking along his spine, enough to make him shiver.

“Hey,” he says when the guy gets closer, leaning in so they can hear each other above the music. “Buy you a drink?”

It’s cheesy, as far as lines go, but the guy doesn’t seem to care. He steps right up into Clint’s space, pressing him against the bar, almost close enough to kiss. He’s even taller up close, tall enough to rest his chin on Clint’s head. It should probably be intimidating, but the casual way he’s just taken over the moment is _doing_ things to Clint, and the only thing he feels is very, very turned on.

“I’d like a drink,” the guy says, leaning forward and saying it right into Clint’s ear, careful to avoid bumping his hearing aid.

“Good,” Clint says, willing his knees not to give out on him right there as the guy’s stubble brushes his cheek, the roughness of it a beautiful contrast to his own smooth skin. “What can I get ya?”

“I’ll have what you’re having,” he says, stepping a little closer. His thigh presses against Clint’s dick, and Clint has to grip the counter to keep himself upright.

“Great,” he manages, and half turns around to catch the bartender’s eye, signing _two more, please_ at her.

She slides two more glasses across the counter. The guy grabs both, then offers the one in his metal hand to Clint. It’s like electricity when their fingers touch, and Clint shivers a little. He’d been planning on being cool and charming, maybe playing hard to get, but honestly he’s so turned on that he’s gonna be lucky if he manages to get any proper words out at all, ever, for the rest of his life.

“What’s your name?” he calls over the music, forcing himself to focus.

“James,” the guy says, all gravelly and low, and oh _fuck_ it should be illegal to have a voice that hot, his whole _everything_ should be illegal, Clint’s probably going to die right now—“Yours?” 

His metal hand slides up Clint’s arm, and Clint whimpers quietly, tightening his grip on the glass so he doesn’t drop it all over himself. James chuckles, something Clint feels more than he hears. “Asked you a question, honey,” he says, leaning even closer. They’re pressed against each other now, and there’s no way James can’t feel Clint’s erection against him. “Gonna tell me your name?”

“Clint,” he gasps out.

“Clint,” James says, savoring his name like he’s savoring the whiskey. “Come dance with me.”

It’s an order, not a suggestion, and Clint is _so_ on board for it. “Okay,” he says, tossing his own drink back again. He’s right on the edge of tipsy, mixing with the arousal, making everything kind of spacey, almost unreal. He stumbles after James like he’s in a dream, the metal hand firmly wrapped around his wrist.

Clint doesn’t recognize the music, but he doesn’t need to. He just slots his body against James, arms slung over his shoulders, moving to the beat. He tries not to think about James’s hand dipping lower, palming over the curve of his ass, pulling him even closer—

His fingers brush over the plug, nudging it a bit, and Clint gasps, arms locking up around him. “Fuck,” he mutters, burying his face in James’s shoulder as he bucks forward, trying to push into his thigh and back onto his fingers at the same time.

There’s another rumble in his chest, and James dips his head, lips barely brushing Clint’s ear. “What’s this?” he asks, nudging the plug again.

“ _Gaah_ ,” Clint says, all coherent thought fleeing his mind.

James grins like a shark, teeth flashing in the club lights. “Oh, sweetheart,” he says, metal hand squeezing Clint’s ass. “You need it _bad_ , don’t you?”

Clint shakes his head, but he can’t stop himself from grinding forward, rubbing his dick on James’s thigh. James chuckles again, then tips Clint’s chin up, swiping his tongue along the little stud in Clint’s lower lip before claiming his mouth in a rough kiss.

Clint’s brain shorts out entirely at that. The rest of the club is gone, faded out of existence. It’s just the two of them now, wrapped around each other, kissing like their lives depend on it. Clint grinds against him, desperate for any kind of friction, and James smiles against his mouth before pulling back. “Come with me,” he orders, and Clint follows, helpless to do anything else.

James leads him through the club to a back door, then down some steps into a secluded hallway filled with various discarded items—crates, broken chairs, a giant, dusty mirror. Clint’s never been back here before, despite dozens of trips to the club, and he wonders just how James knew—

Then he doesn’t have time to wonder anything, because James says “Good enough,” and pushes Clint into the wall, pressing him into the wood panels with enough force to take his breath away. Clint can’t stop the noise that curls out of him, something halfway between a moan and a whimper. He sucks in a lungful of air and puts his palms to the wood, staring up at James.

James is smirking again, looking downright dangerous. “You need it,” he says again, voice low. “That right?”

“What gives you that idea?” Clint asks, already breathing hard. He curls his fingers against the wall, forcing himself to not reach for James.

“I don’t know, sweetheart,” James says, stepping closer anyway. “Might be the clothes.” He presses his palm to Clint’s dick, straining against his shorts. “Might be this dick, all hard and leaking for me.” His other hand slides around, pressing the plug in a little deeper, making Clint yelp and grab at his shoulders to stay upright. “Might be this. You put that in so you’d be ready to go? So you could bend over and get it from anyone?”

“I’ve got standards,” Clint says, clutching at him. “I’ve got—not just anyone gets to handle this.”

“Mmm.” James raises an eyebrow. “Makin’ me feel real special, sweetheart.” He kisses Clint again, rough and sloppy, more a display of dominance than anything else. When he pulls back, there’s a faint impression of lip gloss on his mouth, and Clint stares at it, dying to kiss him again.

“You’re a needy little thing, aren’t you?” James asks, looking down where Clint’s desperately grinding against his thigh. “You wanna get off like this, rubbin’ against my leg? Get those little shorts all wet and messy? That what you’re looking for?”

“Fuck,” Clint says. “No—yes—I want—“

James laughs. “You want,” he says. “I don’t think you even know what you want.”

“Do too,” Clint says, aiming for indignant. It falls a little short when James’s hand slides into his shorts, under the fishnets, making the last word more of a moan.

“Do you?” James asks, metal fingers wrapping around his cock, just barely enough to touch. “Tell me, then.”

“I—” Fucking hell, he can barely see straight. Partially because his face is tucked into James’s shoulder, partially because it’s too hard to even think when James is moving his hand like that— “Oh, _god_.”

Another laugh, dark and low and almost vicious. “You like that, huh?”

“Ye— _ah_ —yes,” Clint chokes out, feeling his orgasm prickle along his skin. “I—”

James pulls his hand out, leaving Clint just on the edge, breath coming in sharp, labored pants. “I don’t think so,” he says, stepping back. “What about what _I_ want?”

“What about—” Clint tries to force his brain back online, maybe half-succeeds. “What—what do you want? I’ll do it, I’ll do anything, I—”

James smiles, predatory and wide. “Anything, huh?”

Clint nods frantically. 

“What if I want you on your knees?” James asks, voice dripping with sex. “What if I want to fuck that pretty little mouth of yours?” He rubs his right thumb over Clint’s lower lip, teasing around the stud there. “Lips like that, you were just _made_ for sucking cock, weren’t you?”

Clint nods again, letting his mouth fall open at the pressure. James slides his thumb in and Clint sucks it, swirling his tongue around the pad of it, keeping his eyes on James. God, they’re so blue, even in the shadowed light of the hallway, blue and brilliant and sparkling with amusement. “That’s it,” he murmurs, slowly pulling his thumb out. “Real fuckin’ pretty. Get on your knees for me, honey.”

Clint drops to his knees like he’s in a dream, staring up at James. Maybe he is in a dream—he can’t really tell anymore, honestly. The music is still loud, even down here, and it’s adding a syrupy quality to the moment, making everything seem oddly distant. Between that and the fact that he’s still _very_ close to coming, well—

He reaches both hands forward, settling his palms on the dark denim, feeling the roughness of it. His fingers move on their own, then, opening the button and pulling the zipper down. James is wearing briefs underneath them, tight black things that his cock is already straining against.

“Go on,” James says softly, winding his metal hand into Clint’s hair and tugging on it. “Want to see those pretty lips around my cock.”

Clint blinks, suddenly realizing he’s been staring at James’s dick—not that anyone can really blame him, he hasn’t even taken it out and he already knows it’s gonna be fucking gorgeous. He blushes, his face heating up, and tugs the briefs down too.

It’s definitely perfect. Best dick he’s ever seen, hands down, and he doesn’t waste a single second in getting it in his mouth. James moans as he sucks at the head before taking it deeper, keeping his eyes up as he lets it nudge the back of his throat.

“Yeah, you were _made_ for this,” James says, voice catching slightly. “Look so good down there with my cock in your mouth. Fuckin’ perfect. Do that again.”

Clint does it again, swallowing past his own gag reflex until he can’t take it any deeper, until his nose is pressed up against James’s skin, eyes watering as he looks up. He holds it as long as he can, then pulls back nice and slow, breathing through his nose.

“Fuck,” James breathes, looking down at him. “That’s it, sweetheart. Doin’ so good for me.”

The praise lights up some part of Clint’s brain and he moans around James’s cock, fingers curling against the muscular thighs.

“Like that too, huh?” James asks, eyes glinting with satisfaction. “You like knowin’ you’re doing a good job for me?”

Clint nods, dragging his tongue down James’s cock, licking and sucking at his balls, drinking in the way James shudders at his touch. “I like it,” he says.

“Good.” James tightens his grip, pulls Clint’s head back until it’s almost painful. Clint blinks back tears and looks up at him, mouth still open. “Gonna fuck your mouth now,” he says. “Put you right up against this wall and make you choke on it. You okay with that?”

Oh god, he’s so okay with it. He might die if that _doesn’t_ happen. “Please,” he gets out, looking up.

“So polite,” James says, voice coated in amusement. “Beggin’ for it already. I like that.” He puts his hand over Clint’s, squeezing his fingers. “Might get a little rough, sweetheart. You need me to stop, you drop this hand. Clear?”

Clint nods, feeling like a bobblehead, and opens his mouth wider.

James’s fingers tighten in his hair and his tone gets harder, more commanding. “I wanna hear it, pretty boy. You use your words with me or we don’t do this at all.”

There’s a flash of panic at that, because Clint wants this more than he’s wanted anything in his entire life. “Yes,” he forces out, fishing around for the words. “Very clear—I get it—please let me—”

“Shh,” James murmurs. “I got you. Just open that pretty mouth for me, keep those eyes up here. There you go.” He slides his dick in, tipping his head back at the sensation. Clint grips his thigh, keeping his hand palm-down, digging his fingers in to keep himself grounded, remind himself not to move them.

“This what you wanted, right?” James asks, holding Clint’s head in place as he fucks into his mouth, little shallow movements that are driving Clint crazy with how much he wants more. “Isn’t that right? Isn’t that why you came in here looking like that? All dressed up and looking so sweet.”

Clint blinks up at him, eyes already watering.

“So what do you say?” James continues, fucking a little deeper. “Hmm? I’m giving you what you want, what do you say?”

“Thank you,” Clint says, although it doesn’t sound anything like words at all. It’s just noise, desperate and whining, and his fingers curl a little tighter. “Thank you.”

“Oh, pretty boy,” James purrs, brushing a stray tear off Clint’s face. “You’re welcome.”

He pushes his dick further down Clint’s throat, and even though he does choke on it, Clint keeps his hand firmly palm-down, pressed against James’s thigh like it’s glued there. He doesn’t want to move it by accident, doesn’t want James to stop when all Clint wants is for him to keep going, to hold him in place and make him just fucking _take_ it.

Time seems to slow around him, narrowing down to this moment. Clint can’t think past it—distantly, he’s aware they’re in a hallway, and it’s not exactly private, but he can’t find it in himself to care at all. He’s just _here_ , a warm space for James to fuck into, just something for him to use to get himself off. It’s so fucking hot, especially with the way James is looking down at him, eyes narrowed in concentration as Clint looks right back at him, blinking away a haze of tears.

James shivers, his thrusts getting a little more erratic. “Almost there,” he says, voice rough. “Gonna come in that pretty mouth of yours.”

Clint nods, squeezing James’s leg in acknowledgement and encouragement and probably a little bit of desperation. He wants it, wants it in his mouth, wants to lick it off his lips and—

“Fuck,” James mutters, and tips his head back, skin glistening with sweat as he comes, the taste of him exploding across Clint’s tongue. Clint swallows around his cock, flicking his tongue over the head to get every last drop of it. “Fuck, honey, that’s so good.”

He pulls Clint’s head back off his dick entirely. He’s still hard, cock wet and covered in spit. Clint wants it in his mouth again— _needs_ it, really, needs to keep sucking it, needs to be good for James—

“Shhh,” James says, quiet and soothing, and Clint realizes he’s saying all that out loud, the words spilling out of him in a frantic flood. His face heats up and he drops his eyes to the floor, suddenly seized by a desire to sink through it. He must look so fucking desperate, begging for cock like that, James must think he’s—

Cool metal fingers slide under his chin, pulling it up. “No,” James says. “No hiding, Clint. You’re perfect for me. Doing _exactly_ what I wanted. Look at me.”

Clint looks up, blinking at him. His vision is still blurry, and he’s not sure if it’s from having a dick halfway down his throat or because of the gentle way James is talking to him. Still heated, but with a sincerity that can’t be faked.

“There you go,” James murmurs, and pulls him up to his feet, steadying him against the wall. “You okay?” Clint nods, and his eyes narrow. “Words, honey. I need to hear it.”

“I’m good,” Clint says. His voice is rough, a _used_ quality to it that wasn’t there before, and it makes his heart beat a little faster. “I’m good.”

“Yeah you are,” James says, and kisses him. It’s softer than before, and Clint sighs into it, wrapping his arms around James’s shoulders. His dick rubs against James’s, and the friction makes them both gasp a little, hips jerking into the contact.

“Fuck,” Clint mutters, dropping his head onto James’s shoulder. “Jesus— _fuck_ , James.”

James presses his palm to Clint’s “You’re being so patient,” he murmurs. “Know what you want now?”

“I—fuck—fuck me, please.” Clint arches into his touch, feeling the metal hand splay against his spine. “I want it.”

“Yeah?” James’s hand slides down, under the shorts and fishnets, down to the plug. He presses on it and Clint sees stars behind his eyes. “I don’t know, honey. Seems like you’re already taking care of yourself.”

“Not the same,” Clint gasps, locking his arms up as his knees go weak, until he’s practically hanging off James. “Please, fuck me—”

James pulls the plug out slightly, then pushes it back in, dragging a low whine out of Clint. “Like that? That what you want?”

“No,” Clint grits out, fisting his hands in James’s shirt. “Want you—want you in me, _James_ —”

“Mm.” James keeps moving the plug, slowly fucking Clint with it. “I think I like you like this, though. Beggin’ for it. Look all sweet and innocent, taste like candy, but you’re just a needy little slut, aren’t you?”

“James,” Clint whines.

“Coming in here already filled up. What were you gonna do if I wasn’t here, huh?”

“You _are_ here,” Clint counters, grinding back onto the plug. “Clocked you the second I saw you, I know guys like you—” His breath hitches, and he bites off a cry. “Show a little leg and get you right where I want—”

“Oh,” James chuckles, velvet smooth. “You think you got me in the palm of your hand?”

“I know I do,” Clint says. It would probably sound more authoritative if he wasn’t whimpering every other word, but it’s the thought that counts.

“I don’t know, honey. I’m not the one crying for it.” He twists the plug just right, sending shocks of pleasure up Clint’s spine, whiting out his vision for a moment. “Not the one who dressed up all nice and went out looking to get fucked.”

“No, just to do the fucking,” Clint says, breathless and shaky.

“Well,” James murmurs in his ear, lowering his voice. “Pretty boy like you comes begging for it, how am I supposed to tell him no?”

“Haven’t come yet,” Clint says, unable to resist.

James snorts and slaps his ass. “Keep sassin’ me and you ain’t gonna come at all.”

“ _Ah_ ,” Clint moans. “So— _fuck_ —sorry.”

“No you’re not,” James says, and Clint grins, because he’s not.

He does want to come, though, and not from the plug, so he manages to gather his thoughts enough to pull James down into a kiss, filthy and wet. When they break apart, Clint slides a hand to his left arm, gripping at the metal of it, and says, “ _Fuck_ me.”

“Right here?” James asks, a sly smile spreading over his face. “Someone might see us.”

“Don’t care,” Clint says, and taps on the arm. “Think you can hold me up?”

“All you gotta do is ask, sweetheart.” James kisses him again, then sucks his way down Clint’s neck, leaving a trail of what’s definitely going to be bruises in the morning. “Already told you I like hearing you.”

“Hnngh,” Clint manages, train of thought entirely derailed. “Will you— _oh god_ —please— _ahhh_ —fuck me—”

He breaks off entirely as James pushes his shorts down to his feet, metal hand thumbing over the top of the fishnets. “I like these,” he says. “But they’re kinda in the way.”

“I can take—” Clint starts, but then there’s a ripping sound, and his eyes go wide. “Did you just—”

James kisses him, which is effective, although it doesn’t stop Clint from being mildly irritated. He bites James’s lip, grinning as it gets a little pained growl. “These were _expensive_ ,” he says, pulling back enough to talk.

“They were in the way,” James says, shrugging, and he tears the front of them too, freeing Clint’s dick before taking it in his hand, lazily running his fingers over it. “Now they’re not.”

“You--” Clint breaks off, head thudding against the wall as James palms over the head of his cock, just enough to make him buck into the sensation.

“You want me to fuck you against this wall?”

Clint scowls. “Yes.”

“Then quit your whining, baby.” James reaches in his pocket and pulls out a little packet of something—lube, probably—and tears it open with his teeth. “Or else I’m gonna get myself off, and just leave you to your own devices.”

“Mean,” Clint tells him, eyes fixed on his hand as he strokes it along his cock, spreading the lube over it. “Maybe I’ll just get _myself_ off, I don’t need you—”

James smirks. “Nothing’s stopping you, honey.” He gestures to Clint’s dick, hard and leaking and untouched. “I never said you couldn’t.”

Clint starts to tell him he doesn’t need _permission_ , but James reaches for the plug, slowly easing it out of him, and he forgets what words are for a moment. Then James slides his hands under Clint's legs and picks him up, bracing him against the wall. “Like this?” he asks, his cock nudging against Clint’s hole. “This what you wanted?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, or at least tries to say. It comes out as a garbled jumble of noise, but he thinks James gets the point, because he laughs quietly and leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to Clint’s mouth.

“Put your legs around me,” James murmurs, and Clint does, wrapping his legs around James’s waist. James says something else, something not in English that Clint doesn’t really catch, and shifts until he’s supporting Clint with one arm, no big deal. It’s unreasonably hot, and even _more_ hot when he guides himself into Clint, filling him up in one slick slide.

“Mother _fuck_ ,” Clint says, dropping his head onto James’s shoulder, holding onto him tighter. “Oh fuck, fuck, _fuck—_ ”

“That’s the idea,” James says, already sounding breathless. He shifts back to two hands, then kisses Clint, sloppy and panting before lifting Clint back up, then slowly lowering him down again, and again, and again and _holy fucking shit_ this is how Clint’s going to die. This is it, right here. Death by wall sex, at the hands—dick, technically—of the hottest-looking guy Clint’s ever seen in his _life_. 

God, he’d come out here just looking for a quick fuck in the bathroom or something and now he has this, has James holding him up like he’s _nothing_ , fucking him at the world’s slowest pace, and it’s entirely possible that Clint’s just going to melt into a puddle right here, just absolutely dissolve into pieces.

And yet somehow it’s still not _enough_ , and he squirms in James’s grasp, hooking his ankles together and pulling him even closer. “More,” he demands. “Harder.”

“I’m the one doing all the work here, sweetheart,” James says, grinding into him just right. “Easy for you to say, all you gotta do is hang on.”

“More,” Clint demands again, grinding back on him. “You said you’d fuck me, this isn’t _fucking_ —”

“Ain’t knitting either,” James says, and Clint laughs despite himself.

“ _Fuck_ me,” he says. “Make me forget my fucking name, come on, I want it har- _aaah_ —”

He breaks off with a moan as James thrusts up into him, a short, sharp movement that punches all the air from his lungs, leaving him dazed. “That better?” James asks, smirking as Clint moans again, muffling himself in James’s neck. “Answer me, or I’ll stop.”

“I’ll kill you if you stop,” Clint chokes out, fingernails digging into James’s shoulders. “I will actually kill you, don’t you _dare_ fucking stop—”

“So demanding,” James says, still sounding remarkably put-together considering what they’re doing. “Alright. Just remember you asked for it.” He readjusts his grip and thrusts up into Clint again, so hard that he nearly screams from it. It takes everything he’s got to turn it into a strangled cry instead, and then James does it again, and again.

Clint can’t do anything to help in this position, doesn’t have the leverage to fuck him back. All he can do is hold tight and take it, try and keep his cries to a minimum. Not that he really gives a shit if anyone sees them, but if someone tries to _stop_ them, he won’t be held responsible for his actions.

Keeping quiet is easier said than done, though, because James is giving him what he asked for, fucking him hard and fast. Clint’s brain has pretty much taken a hike by this point, higher thinking traded for whorish moans and bitten-off cries of _James_ and _oh god_ and _please_.

Please what, he doesn’t know, but it’s one of the few words he’s got right now, and he’s not letting it go.

He tightens one arm around James’s neck and reaches for his cock with the other, only to have James growl—actually _growl_ —and knock it away, shifting his grip easily. “No.”

“I need—”

“No you fuckin’ don’t,” James says, finally sounding on edge himself. “You got everything you need right here.”

“I want—”

“I said _no_ ,” James snarls, and Clint shudders in his grip, putting his arm back. “Come like this or you don’t come at all.”

Impossibly, incredibly, he goes even harder, literally fucking the breath out of Clint as he braces them against the wall and snaps his hips forward. Clint whines high in his throat, a desperate little _ah ah ah_ , half out of his mind as the wave of sensations just keeps building. He’s come untouched before, but it’s always a slow thing, like he’s being dragged over the edge of orgasm. This isn’t _slow_ , but it’s still that same feeling, like everything just pushes him closer and closer but never—

Quite—

Makes it—

“Please,” Clint begs, not even sure for what at this point, if he wants to come or wants to stay here, lost in the anticipation and the buildup and the perfect brutality of James relentlessly pounding into him.

“Do it,” James bites out. “Come on, pretty boy, come for me. I’ve got you, wanna feel you come around my cock, you can do it—”

He leans forward and kisses Clint, the act of it strangely intimate. At the same time, he shifts his grip, freeing his metal arm and slides it up Clint’s chest, gently wrapping it around his throat, squeezing just enough to make breathing difficult.

Clint doesn’t know if it’s _that_ , or the change in angle, or maybe his body’s just finally hit the tipping point, but that’s it—he’s gone. His arms lock around James’s shoulders and his eyes screw shut as he _loses_ it, coming all over the both of them, the intensity of it so sharp that he can’t breathe, can’t cry out, can’t do anything but bury his face into James’s neck and shudder in his arms.

“That’s it,” James says, all sweet and encouraging, but he’s not stopping, not even slowing down. Clint gasps wetly against him, feeling tears prick his eyes as his whole body shakes to pieces in James’s steady grasp. “My turn, now.” He grips both of Clint’s legs again, metal fingers digging in.

“Oh fuck—” Clint shakes his head, desperate, because he’s oversensitive now, and it _hurts_ , but it feels as good as it hurts, and Clint doesn’t know what to _do_ about it. He wants it to stop, wants it to keep going forever, wants to collapse into James’s arms and float away— “James, _please_ —”

A dark laugh next to his ear, lips against his skin. “You told me not to stop, sweetheart. I’m just giving you what you asked for.”

“Oh god, James,” Clint sobs, and he is sobbing now, full-on ugly crying. He can see his face in the dusty mirror to the side of them, mascara streaked to hell and his hair just absolutely ruined. He looks debauched, and he fucking _loves_ it, even as the oversensitivity nearly destroys him, makes him lose his fucking mind. “ _James_ —”

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty,” James says, voice tight as Clint shakes and spasms around him. “Crying for it like this. You want me to come?”

“Yes,” Clint whines, and leans forward, sucking a mark on his neck, biting just hard enough to pull a low moan from James. “Yes, I want it, I want you—”

“Clint,” James groans, and hitches his hips forward, burying himself deep as his fingers tighten on Clint’s legs, squeezing hard enough to leave bruises. “Oh Clint, sweetheart, _Jesus_ , that’s good, you’re so good for me.” He rolls his hips in slow motions, fucking into Clint as he rides out his orgasm. Grinds right up against him, making sparks flash behind Clint’s eyes, drawing out tiny choked whimpers.

“So fuckin’ good,” he says again, punctuating each word with a short little thrust.

Clint nods against him, still crying into his shoulder. He’s just floating now, pieces of him scattered everywhere. He’s distantly aware of James holding onto him, of the wall at his back, and the gentle things James is murmuring in his ear, but there isn’t anything he can do except cry, and shiver, and hope that James can figure out how to put him back together.

At least two lifetimes pass as they stand there, pressed together, slowly returning to normal. The steady beat of James’s heart is comforting, and Clint focuses on that, letting it be his anchor back to reality.

“Can’t feel my legs,” he finally says, the words more mumbled than anything.

James chuckles quietly. “I got you,” he says, and lifts Clint off himself before slowly lowering him to the ground, still holding him up. “I got you. It’s okay. Just breathe.”

Clint lets out a shaky breath and nods, loosening his arms around James’s shoulders. “Fuck,” he mutters, tipping his head back against the wall. James smiles down at him, loose and languid, and Clint just has to kiss it.

“Taste like candy,” James murmurs, and Clint grins against his mouth. “Told you you were sweet.”

“Mm,” Clint says, and kisses him again, hot and heavy, losing himself in the moment and the feel of James against him.

James kisses him back, still pressing him into the wall. “Gonna go for round two if you keep this up,” he mumbles, sliding his metal hand up from Clint’s waist to under his shirt, thumbing over his nipple, rolling it between his fingers.

“Wouldn’t mind,” Clint mumbles right back, breath hitching as James pinches him. “I—I can go again—”

“Aw, baby,” James says, using his other hand to brush tears off Clint’s cheeks. “Already made you cry for it, you really think you got another one in you?” He lowers his metal hand, just barely brushes over Clint’s dick. It’s another flash of that _too-much-not-enough_ sensation, and Clint grabs at his shoulders as his knees wobble.

James hums quietly and steadies him, hands on his waist. “Some other time, I think.” He smirks at Clint. “Come here often?”

“Every chance I get,” Clint says.

“Yeah?” James raises an eyebrow. “You do this every time, too? Follow someone into a back room and let them fuck you against a wall?”

“Sometimes.” Clint smirks right back. “Why, you wanna do it again?”

“Darlin’,” James says, all sultry and low, thumbing over the piercing in Clint’s lip. “I’ll have you any way you’ll let me.”

Oh _fuck_ , that’s hot. Clint whimpers and nods. “Yeah,” he manages, staring up at James. “Yeah—any way you want.”

“There you go makin’ promises again,” James says, replacing his thumb with his mouth for a brief kiss. “Gonna hold you to that, you know.” He pats Clint’s cheek. “Come on. Let’s make you look a little more presentable.”

“Still mad about the fishnets,” Clint mutters., shifting as come trickles down his leg, spilling out of him. He supposes they should have thought about condoms or something, but he’s still in that uncaring, post-orgasm haze, and he kinda likes the feeling anyway. Goes with the marks on his legs, which are going to be _spectacular_ bruises in the morning. He can already feel them forming.

“I’m very sorry,” James says, not sounding sorry at all as he wipes his shirt off. “Next time wear something that’s not gonna get in the way.”

“I could’ve taken them _off_ —” Clint starts, indignant, then loses all train of thought as James’s fingers rub around his hole, two of them sliding in easily. “I—holy _fuck_ —”

“You’re leaking,” James murmurs. “Guess we should do something about that.” He pulls his fingers out, then reaches down to Clint’s shorts, coming back up with the plug. “You think so?”

Clint’s brain pretty much blue screens at the words, so he just makes a noise that could charitably be described as “yes” and clutches at James as he slides the plug back in. He feels so _dirty_ at the thought of it, filthy and sinful as hell, but it’s so fucking hot he doesn’t even _care_. “I—oh god, James, what the—”

“Just making you presentable,” James says, all conversation and ease like he’s not slowly driving Clint insane, like he hasn’t already driven Clint insane. “Can’t have you goin’ back up there like that. People are gonna get the wrong idea.”

Clint lets out a shaky laugh and gestures at his face. “Or the right one.”

“Or the right one,” James agrees. “Should’ve gotten waterproof.”

“Should’ve,” Clint sighs, holding onto James as he helps Clint get dressed again, sliding the shorts up over his legs. “Oh well.” He scrubs at his face, doing his best to rub away the worst of the streaks. “Worth it.”

James laughs. “Good to know.” He steps back, letting Clint stand unsupported for a moment, raising an eyebrow as he wobbles. “Still no legs, huh?”

“You’re gonna have to carry me,” Clint says, faux-regretful, “since it’s your fault I can’t walk.”

“I think this is a two-way street, doll,” James counters with a grin. “You were the one who wanted me to fuck you against the wall. Could’ve just as easily bent you over a table.”

He gestures to a nearby table, piled with boxes of various things, and Clint’s dick valiantly tries to make its interest known. “Next time,” Clint says, mouth dry at the thought. “If you want.”

“Any way you’ll let me,” James says again, and takes Clint’s hand. “Come on. Should probably get you a taxi to your place before you fall over.”

“I can walk home,” Clint protests, two seconds before he trips over his own feet and stumbles into James. “Not a word,” he orders, pointing a finger at James, doing his best to glare. “Not a fucking word outta you.”

“Wasn’t gonna say a thing,” James says, amusement all over his face, and he tugs Clint up the stairs, back through the door to the dance floor.

They get more than a few looks as they make their way through the crowd of people. One very drunk guy gives him a raised eyebrow and a thumbs-up, which makes Clint turn bright red. He looks at the floor, heat suffusing through him, and then realizes that the rip in the fishnets extends beyond the shorts, clearly showing a couple inches past the hem.

Seeing that makes him blush even hotter, and it doesn’t help that James glances back at that exact moment, and catches him looking. He grins, completely unashamed, and shrugs. Clint scowls at him, and the grin just gets wider.

There’s a slight breeze as they go outside, not really cold, but it’s enough to make Clint shiver. James pulls him into his side, wrapping a warm arm around him while he raises a hand for a taxi.

“I don’t have my wallet,” Clint tells him. “I can’t—”

“I got it,” James says easily. He kisses the top of Clint’s head, sending a wave of warm melty feelings through him. “Fucked you so good you can’t even walk, least I can do is get you a taxi.”

“So polite of you,” Clint says dryly, and James laughs as one pulls up. “So when do we get to do this again?”

“I’m here a lot too,” James says, reaching for the door. “I imagine we’ll run into each other at some point.” He drags his gaze over Clint’s body, looking amused and appreciative. “Especially if you’re gonna come out dressed like that.”

“I’ll dress however you want me to,” Clint says. “If this is what I get out of it.”

James laughs again and opens the door, putting a couple of bills into Clint’s hand. “Get yourself home safe, doll,” he says, kissing him. “I’ll see you around.”

“See you around,” Clint echoes, and slides in the taxi, gingerly sitting in the backseat. The plug isn’t _uncomfortable_ , but he did just get fucked six ways to Sunday, and he’s still a little sensitive.

“Nice night?” the driver asks, looking in the mirror.

Clint looks back and scrubs a hand over his face. “Great night,” he says, settling back into the seat.

It’s a short ride back to his apartment, and Clint can mostly feel his toes by the time he gets there. He pays the driver, then manages to walk all the way up to his apartment without either falling over or being noticed by anyone, which is nice. Not that any of his neighbors will judge him, but he’s not really in the mood for conversation right now. He wants a shower, and then he wants to curl up in his bed and sleep for a million years. All the furious energy from before is completely gone, fucked out of him, and the only thing he’s got left is a tired feeling of contentment.

He pushes open the apartment door and goes right upstairs. He sheds his clothes and drops them on the floor by the laundry basket, then eases the plug out of himself, washing it in the bathroom sink before tossing it back onto the bed. The shower takes a minute to warm up, but then it’s perfect, the heat easing his sore muscles as he gets in and stands there, just letting it run over his back.

Clint hasn’t moved by the time the door opens, and a familiar person steps in with a quiet, “Hey, you.”

“Hey,” Clint says back, wiping the water from his eyes, seeing the silhouette through the shower curtain. “You coming in, or do I gotta drag you?”

“Gimme a second,” comes the amused reply, and Clint waits patiently, watching the shadows as clothes are stripped off. Then the curtain moves aside, and Clint steps back into the spray of water, freeing up the space.

Bucky steps in the tub and smiles at him, reaching forward to brush Clint’s hair back. “Hey, sweetheart,” he says, and Clint immediately folds into his arms, tucking his face into Bucky’s chest. “Miss me?”

Clint snorts out a laugh and nods against him.

“Good,” Bucky murmurs, dropping a kiss on the top of his head. “How you feeling?”

“That,” Clint says, tilting his head up, “was the hottest thing that has ever happened to me in my _life_.”

Bucky laughs. “We’ve played that game before,” he teases. “What was so special about this time?”

“You’ve never fucked me against a wall,” Clint says. “Just liftin’ me up like that—fuck, Bucky, do even know how amazing that was?”

“Glad you liked it,” Bucky says, still laughing. “Couldn’t fuckin’ help myself, honey. You were like a walking wet dream, all prettied up and wearin’ that shirt—”

“ _You_ picked the shirt. Laid it out all nice for me. I was just following instructions.”

“Yeah, well, you looked amazing. Where the hell did the fishnets come from?”

“Bought ‘em last week,” Clint admits. “Thought you might like them.”

“I fucking loved them.”

“Good, because you owe me another pair.” Clint pokes him in the ribs, snickering as Bucky squeaks and pulls away. “They were expensive.”

“I’ll buy you as many as you want,” Bucky promises. “You have no idea what they do to me, goddamn—”

“I got a pretty good idea,” Clint says. “I think the whole damn club has a pretty good idea. I think people in the next hemisphere have a good idea. ”

“You were loud,” he agrees, patting Clint on the ass. “I liked that, too. You do your hair yet?”

“No, I was waiting for you.”

Bucky hums happily and reaches for the soap, lathering up and rubbing his fingers through Clint’s hair. “Anything you didn’t like?” he asks, tilting Clint’s head to the side. “Anything we need to talk about?”

Clint shakes his head, trying not to melt as Bucky’s fingers rub against his scalp. “Was good,” he assures him. “Would’ve safe-worded if it wasn’t. You know me.”

“I do,” Bucky says. “I trust you. Just checking in.” He flashes a tiny smile as he gently rinses the soap out, blocking the water from Clint’s eyes.

“I know,” Clint says. “I trust you too.” He smiles back. “Anything on your end?”

“You were _perfect_ ,” Bucky says, emphatic and sincere. “Always are.”

Clint closes his eyes as the praise washes over him, warming him as much as the water, and pulls Bucky into a kiss.

They finish showering, then, washing each other in a routine as familiar as breathing. Sometimes it’s an excuse to get handsy with each other, but after nights like this, after playing the game, Clint just wants to be held, and hold Bucky in return.

Bucky dries him off, then pulls him over to the bed. “Come on, you,” he says.

Clint blinks. “Did you change the sheets?”

“I did. I’m nice like that.” He picks up the plug and puts it back in the drawer. “This was a good touch, by the way.”

“I thought you’d like that.” Clint sprawls onto the bed and grins up at him. “Faster than fingers, too.”

“You say that like you don’t love my fingers in you,” Bucky drawls, getting into bed next to him. “But it was hot. You can do that again.”

“I’m definitely doing that again,” Clint says.

Bucky wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him closer. “You feeling better now? Nat said you had a rough week.”

Clint shrugs. “You were gone, and Tony and I got into it over something stupid, and then Steve yelled at me for being reckless.”

“You _are_ reckless.” Bucky kisses the back of his neck. “Put yourself at risk too much. It’s fun in a fantasy, but you keep doin’ it in real life, and you’re gonna get yourself hurt.” He reaches over Clint to flick the lamp off, plunging them into darkness. “I like you safe and sound in my bed, Clint. Not out there tryin’ to prove something. You don’t have a damn thing to prove to any of us.”

“Technically this is _my_ bed,” Clint says, and Bucky snorts before swatting him on the ass. “But I know. We can talk about it in the morning. Now shut up and lemme sleep, alright? Some guy fucked my brains out in a club tonight and I’m tired as hell.”

Bucky snorts again. “Sounds like you had a good time,” he says.

“I had a great time,” Clint says. “He was hot as fuck. Had this wicked cool metal arm, too. I think you’d like him. He took very good care of me.”

“That’s because he loves you,” Bucky murmurs, already sounding sleepy.

“Good,” Clint says, tangling his fingers into Bucky’s and settling down into the bed. “Because I love him too.”

Bucky smiles against his shoulder. “Glad to hear it,” he says, and taps a finger on Clint’s ear. “Take these out.”

“Oh yeah,” Clint says, and pulls them out, reaching over to set them on the nightstand. “Thanks.” He settles back into place. “Night, Bucky.”

There’s an answering rumble, and a gentle kiss against the back of his neck, and Clint closes his eyes, pulling Bucky’s arm tighter across his chest as he drifts off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintscoffeepot/pseuds/clintscoffeepot). Thank you!
> 
> (also I am aware Clint is taller than Bucky, a friend of mine loves smol Clint and asked if I would oblige her for this fic and I said yes)


End file.
